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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945300">a list, precise and thorough</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomonymous/pseuds/Kawa'>Kawa (fandomonymous)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>kink soap opera - a partnership, to be determined [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, BDSM, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:54:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomonymous/pseuds/Kawa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Pull yourself together. The notebook is for processing what <strong>actually</strong> happened to you, to keep your emotions in check, not to indulge in your impossible fantasies. You are offering a service to be useful to him, to keep the case moving instead of its bizarre meandering course. Maybe <em>this</em> time you can prevent self-destruction - that's what matters. Be selfless. State what happened next.</em>
</p><p>A shift in perspective - the aftermath of a scene, and what happens next. Takes place immediately after <em>a place, dark and soft</em>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>kink soap opera - a partnership, to be determined [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a list, precise and thorough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Seriously, if you haven't read or have forgotten <em>a place, dark and soft</em>, click the 'Previous Work' link to jog your memory.</p><p>Also please note the tags. Kim's head isn't the most pleasant place... for now. This series will end more positively, but that ending will be earned!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The balcony door shuts behind you with a satisfying click. Your gut tells you that Harry will be standing there dumbfounded for at least the next twenty seconds, then meander back to his room. Good. That's enough time. You check your jacket pocket - yes-yes, both notebooks. </p><p>You powerwalk across the hallway, down the stairs, and through the cafeteria. (You briefly wish the other door was open, to bypass the Hardies, but they're paying no attention to you.) You glance up once you've left the Whirling - no longer on the balcony, light off in Harry's room. Good.</p><p>You slide into the driver's basket seat of the Kineema; the familiar smell of leather conditioner and car wax surrounds you. You dig into your jacket for the notebook tucked in right next to your official RCM ledger - the personal one, leather-bound, for notes not relevant to your work.</p><pre>March [XX], '51
* Harry asks about "the homo-sexual underground". Might be the weirdest way I've ever come out, but humor his curiosity. 
* Spends the afternoon barely able to keep it together. Fumbling words, even less intimidating than usual.</pre>
<p>You pause, thinking about how to word what's next.</p><pre>* Harry asks to "be thrashed" by me. Indulge him.
&gt; Maybe this wasn't wise? Unprofessional, certainly, and risky. 
&gt; ...why did I agree to do it anyway, then? 
&gt;&gt; I thought it could help him focus. 
&gt;&gt; I thought I could be a safer outlet for his urges than his more self-destructive behaviors. </pre>
<p>There is a piece you leave unwritten: because of your own loneliness, your own damnable solitude, even the prospect of sharing space with someone in erotic context without being touched was irresistable. The fact that it was about as safe a risk as you could take - when was the last time <em>anything</em> exciting happened to you? And now, less than a week in, you've cuffed and spanked and jerked off a <em>colleague</em>, and a brilliant and dangerous and (much to your chagrin) oddly attractive one at that. </p><p>
  Pull yourself together. The notebook is for processing what <em>actually</em> happened to you, to keep your emotions in check, not to indulge in your impossible fantasies. You are offering a service to be useful to him, to keep the case moving instead of its bizarre meandering course. Maybe <em>this</em> time you can prevent self-destruction - that's what matters. Be selfless. State what happened next.
</p><pre>&gt; Safewords established: traffic lights.
&gt; He calls me sir. This is worth reinforcing.
&gt; Obedient about not getting to touch himself. 
&gt; Looks damn good with clothes all undone and cuffed behind back (he instinctively put his wrists in RCM protocol position 2, worth noting).
&gt; Seems to like being forced to talk; seems to have trouble talking in scene otherwise; one odd exception.
&gt; Handles spankings on a bare posterior very well. Prefers bare over through layers. Can take a reasonable amount of pain.
&gt; Deeply enjoys hair pulling. Quite fun.

* Aftercare notes:
&gt; He really wants to reciprocate. Have to figure out how to discourage that.
&gt; No complaints about Relaxed.FM. 
&gt; Water, almonds, cashews. Didn't touch the other nuts.
&gt; Only oil on hand for massage was my cologne - maybe he'll read that as possessive, maybe he won't.
&gt; He fumbled his cigarette, so I had to share. Get more for him? Or trust his own supply?

To do:
* Go home, get The Case
* To buy: Almonds, cashews, cigs
* Refill water flask
* Make and give limit checklist
* Plan another scene - let's face it, it's inevitable at this point</pre>
<p>
You start the Kineema - the satisfying click of the ignition, the delicious roar of the coil - and hit the road. You swap the radio to Speedfreaks.FM, let the three chords and the dream pound through you, memories of punk shows and play parties you were too chicken in your youth to really get into but always wanted more of.
</p><p>This is your first opportunity in a <em>very</em> long time to indulge this impulse, your brain reminds you. And certainly the first where control was just handed to you on a platter, so willingly, so smoothly. You'll have to do everything to make this as good as you can for him. Use every skill. Be a beacon of focus and strength, so he can let go. That's your role here, <em>sir</em>, don't fuck it up.
</p><p>
You pull up to your apartment building - a row of generic buildings just outside the GRIH, precisely for the kind of low professional wage you have. A small strand of adrenaline flows through you - god, you haven't touched The Case in <em>forever</em>, let alone gotten to use half of what's in it - and you bound up the stairs. (Has Harry's eternal jogging stuck with you? No. That can't be.)
</p><p>
You enter your apartment - a studio, minimally appointed, immaculately kept. Go through your nightly home-checking tasklist.
</p><pre>* Water the plant
* Dust the shelves
* Double-check the traps, make sure there's no vermin this time
* Get and sort mail
* Take a shower, since the one in the Whirling is *filthy*</pre><p>
In the heat of the shower - finally, truly alone to your thoughts - you allow yourself to indulge.
</p><p>
  Your mind drifts back to Harry, shirt unbuttoned, pants shoved down, cuffed, nearly trembling under your hands. The feel of his cock in your hand, thick, hard, velvety, hot, powerful. How much restraint did it take you, to not just undress and straddle yourself right then and there? How <em>good</em> would that have felt?
</p><p>
Could you even begin to imagine the look in his eyes? He was already a complete mess just from your hands - how thoroughly could you have undone him? How perfect would the sensation have been for <em>you</em>, to fill yourself completely, while keeping perfect control? When was the last time you got to feel that ache fulfilled?
</p><p>
Here in this shower stall, it is your hand on yourself, not his; his are nontrivially larger, as you recall from watching them work and fumble so many times in the last few days. The moment of oblivion then clarity from orgasm comes and goes quickly; you clean up mechanically.
</p><p>
Right. Back to it, once you've toweled off and changed. The Case.
</p><p>
The Case is a nondescript small suitcase made of black plastic, currently tucked under your mattress. The only thing that makes it unusual is the illegible remains of a sticker in one corner. It's from an ex-boyfriend from long ago, from those days of mosh pits and dungeons. The sticker had been for a band that hasn't played in fifteen years; it used to be covered in stickers, actually, and you had methodically peeled the vast majority of them off. This is the one piece of that left, and at this point it's how you tell The Case apart from your normal travel suitcase.</p><p>
You slide The Case onto your mattress and pop it open. A remarkable collection of sex toys greets you. Admittedly, you barely remember how some of this is <em>used</em>. Tragically, the ex-boyfriend broke up with you before you got to try some of these. But hey, you got The Case out of it, and occasionally added to it when your libido decided what you needed to do with your paycheck was go to That One Store off of Boogie Street.
</p><p>You pick up one object in particular, a personal favorite. Stainless steel, shaped in a smooth, elegant curve; three knobs of increasing size on one side, one gentler one on the other. It's cool and heavy in your hand, but you know it will warm up in time, in a body. 
</p><p>
Your mind brings the image of Harry back to you, bent over the bed, ass cheeks red. It had been so difficult then, to not just take advantage of the vulnerable hole exposed to you. Now what if you had? What if you had left him panting while you took off your gloves and slicked your fingers; how tight would he have been, how hot? What kind of beautiful noises would he have made as he stretched out for you?
</p><p>
You imagine sliding the first of these three knobs into him, the cold a delicious surprise, the weightiness insistent and powerful. It'd be so easy too, so smooth, barely thicker than the finger you would have used in preparation. So easy, you doubt you'd be able to resist pushing the second one in - how prettily would he have gasped at that? Would he be able to take the third? And when you moved to stroke him off, what would happen if you tugged on it instead of his hair? If he was close enough, could he cum from that stimulation, that motion…?
</p><p>Regardless of your fantasies, everything in The Case seems to be in good working order. You replace the toy and close the suitcase, relishing the sound of the locks snapping into place.
</p><p>Satisfied, you take The Case back to the Kineema. By now, Harry should be asleep; you hope the Kineema won't wake him too early. You decide to drive back in silence this time, to consider the rest of what you need to do.
</p><pre>&gt; Frittte's snack counter had small packages of nuts. Harry will go exchange tare and get more cigarettes at some point; easy opportunity.
&gt; Write checklist before bedtime at the Whirling
&gt;&gt; But what should be on it?
&gt;&gt; How to give it to Harry without others noticing? How to make sure he fills it out without blurting something obscene to someone?</pre><p>
You pull up in the Kineema, and look up. The lights are still out in Harry's room. Great. There's more work to do for you before you sleep, but it's fine. If he can rest any easier, that will be enough.
</p>
<hr/><p>
In the morning, you go down and get your usual cup of tea from Garte, but instead of having it in the cafeteria, you go back upstairs to wait outside Harry's room.
</p><p>
"Good morning, Kim. Surprised to see you here."
</p><p>
"Good morning, detective. After last night's … incident, I thought it would be prudent to discuss things more privately."
</p><p>
His back straightens at that. "Um, sure. Whatever you want, Kim." He opens the door to his room and gestures to let you enter.
</p><p>
You take stock - a bigger room than yours; the messy futon; the open windows, including the broken one; the broken tape player. No more tare - he must have cleaned that all up for the sake of the cash. (Isn't it pathetic, how little the RCM pays, how little Revachol cares for her own, how you scrimped and saved for every damn thing you owned? Why do you even love this city, when it loves you back so little?) 
</p><p>
You take out the checklist from your pocket. "If you want to do that again, I want to know some things first. Limits, consent. It's important to know what you would and wouldn't do, what you would and wouldn't want. So I prepared a checklist for you." You hand it over. If you have any questions about what any of these are, you can ask. You can also ask for the checklist any time we're alone if you'd like to change your mind on anything. Would you like to fill it out now, or spend some time thinking about it?"
</p><p>
"This seems like a lot for just -"
</p><p>
"This isn't 'just' anything, officer. It's the vulnerability of the human body, in a different way than our professional lives. I will not go into this if I do not know the risks you are willing to take." Your voice holds firm. Limits are important. Boundaries are important. You will not risk hurting him, and you certainly will not risk doing anything he doesn't consent to.
</p><p>
He looks at you for a long moment. Just before you can raise your eyebrow at him, make your position clear, he turns back to the checklist. He sits down on the futon, pulls out his ridiculous pen from the cryptozoologist's wife, and begins to check things off.
</p>
<hr/><p>
The days ends, and the two of you are up at the Whirling. Harry's hand is on the door knob to his room, but he's hesitating. He looks at you, expectant. 
</p><p>
"So, since I filled out the checklist...do you think, tonight...?" 
</p><p>
God, he's so <em>lovely</em> when he's flustered, isn't he? You'd think a flush wouldn't be noticeable on cheeks already tinged by lingering alcohol, and yet there's just enough, not to mention the slightest tremble in his voice. Below you, the patrons of the Whirling in their milieu, uncaring about your soft conversation; above you, the lady you'd just been speaking to smoking her cigarette, then the aerostatics, then the stars. 
</p><p>
"Ah yes. I understand. Go to your room, lock that door, unlock the door to the bathroom so I can enter that way, and sit on the futon. Can you do that?"
</p><p>
He nods. You quirk an eyebrow, and he manages to flush further. Quiet now. "Yes, sir." And with that, he enters his room.
</p><p>
You quickly make it to your own room.
</p><pre>Things needed:
* lubrication
* Bringing the whole Case to introduce him to it, but specifically for tonight:
** small leather paddle
** Anal beads, melamine, smaller set
* Aftercare kit
** almonds, cashews
** water flask, full
** massage oil
** radio
** clean towel</pre>
<p>
Satisfied you have all you need, you give yourself a moment with your handle on the door to the shared bathroom. Let the scene sink in, bit by bit. Let him sit there, fully clothed and yet vulnerable, looking out at the windows to the balcony, let him wonder who would be looking, if they'd have any idea what would happen next. Let his heart pound a little, waiting for you. Give space for the anticipation to build, even if it's been going all day.
</p><p>
You turn the doorknob slowly, so slowly, and walk in.
</p><p>
Apparently you have given enough time for Harry to clear out a walkway for you - a sweet gesture, and clearly deliberate, given how trashed the rest of the place continues to be. He may need to be rewarded for that. You step through the last threshold, from the bathroom to Harry's main room, and pause.
</p><p>
You'd thought <em>lovely</em> before, at the hints of Harry's need. Now, the word that comes to your mind is <em>exquisite</em>, watching him watch you. Perhaps it is strange and sad, heaping such praise upon an unmitigated disaster of a man. He is, in his own terrifying way, one of the most brilliant detectives you have ever met. He is, in his own ridiculous way, the most attractive man you have had near you in a long time. More than that, he is willing to *give you control*, in a world where no one will give you the most basic respect. 
</p><p>
Do what you have to, so he doesn't go unhinged. Take what little pleasure you've earned. 
</p><p>
You cross the room, The Case swinging a bit in your hand. He notices it, a little wide eyed.<br/>
"Ah, this? This is a handful of things to help me along. If you're good, you'll get to know these contents very, very well. But you did tell me you like surprises, so I can't exactly give you the full tour." You move to place it near the busted tape player, so you can have the case open in a way that's just out of his line of sight.
</p><p>
Perfect. You have this under control. You have his full attention. Now what are you going to do with it, <em>sir</em>?
</p><p>
"Stand."
</p><p>
He does, quickly, not quite stumbling over himself to do so. 
</p><p>
"Strip."
</p><p>
He looks askance at the open window and grimaces, then squeezes his eyes shut. One breath, two, three - just as you're about to admonish him for not following your instructions, he starts undoing that terrifying tie of his. 
</p><p>
Piece by piece, his clothing drops, artlessly. He keeps his eyes closed and his hands tremble at some points - particularly the waistband of his pants - but he persists. 
</p><p>
When it is done - those god awful, unhygienic briefs atop the pile on the floor - he reopens his eyes and looks directly at you. A beautiful contradiction. His nakedness only highlights his bulk, the muscles undoubtedly there under the fat, the fact that at any given point he *could*, theoretically, lunge at you and pin you down. And yet, the almost pathetic look in his eyes tells a completely different tale - one of need and vulnerability, of powerlessness. 
</p><p>
You have caused this contradiction without so much as touching him - what else could you possibly need? 
</p><p>
"Color?"
</p><p>
"Green, sir."
</p><p>
"Good. Other than when I ask you something, you will not say anything else. No other noises. We cannot fix your broken window, but the last thing we need is for you to make some obscene noise and have someone outside look up and see what's going on. You'll be rewarded for your discretion, and punished for disobeying. Do you understand me?"
</p><p>
He glances to the window, then turns back to you. A breeze comes through; you watch the fur of his chest flutter. He gulps. "Yes, sir."
</p><p>
"Good. Bend over the futon."
</p><p>
He does so, presenting his body to you. The drugs and alcohol have wreaked their havoc on his flesh, but not completely. You've never had the luxury of being picky about your partners' bodies - getting anyone to notice you as a potential partner was hard enough. You can admit to yourself that even without the connection of professional brotherhood someone like Harry would have caught your eye. (Deeper, you can admit a strange appeal to mixing the professional and the personal - after all, who can understand the stresses on your life better than a colleague? But that's a different kind of dangerous -)
</p><p>
No matter. Move forward. There's no room for this.
</p><p>
"Would you like to be spanked again?"
</p><p>
"Yes, sir."
</p><p>
"I want you to count them, and to thank me for each one. But remember, no other noises. Can you do that?"
</p><p>
"Yes, sir."
</p><p>
You take a paddle - not much larger than a hairbrush, made of wood, wrapped in leather - from the Case and walk slowly towards Harry. (One day you will use some of the more intimidating implements in the Case, but right now you do not trust yourself to wield them with confidence. A top without confidence isn't worth anyone's time, right? Right.) Relish in the differential, you completely clothed and he completely naked. This is power. You need nothing else. 
</p><p>
The first blow lands on the left buttock. Flesh moves and trembles. "One. Thank you, sir."
</p><p>
Wind your arm, feel the tendons of your elbow build power that crackles over dimpled flesh. Right buttock. "Two, thank you sir."
</p><p>
You're so excited to finally be doing this again that the third hit goes artlessly, no refinement, not enough power, left upper thigh. "Three, thank you sir." He's panting anyway. You don't know who's done this to him before. Maybe it was a constant of his life before he tried to obliterate himself. Maybe he wished for it but couldn't find it. 
</p><p>
Pull yourself together, even as he falls apart. That is the point, that is the goal. Hold yourself together so he doesn't have to. Right upper thigh. "Four, thank you sir."
</p><p>
Take a breath. Make this count. The flesh of the left buttock is starting to turn pink, hot blood flowing in. "Five, thank you sir."
</p><p>
His thighs are trembling now. You put more power into your blow onto the right buttock than you intended; the handle reverberates in your hand. "S - six." A deep breath. "Thank you, sir." 
</p><p>
Are those tears in his eyes? Have you gone too far?
</p><p>
"Color?"
</p><p>
"Green, sir." It's practically a wail. Once again, you have to wonder how much he can take. Well, let's find out. 
</p><p>
Faster strikes now; you pull back as he states his gratitude, so you can land the next one as soon as 'sir' leaves his mouth. Seven, eight, nine, ten. He's panting and definitely teary eyed but mostly holding firm. Enjoying it, even - you can see his cock stiffening through his legs.
</p><p>
Eleven, twelve, thirteen -
</p><p>
A breeze flows through the space, over hot sensitive exposed skin. He moans, wantonly. "Thirteen, fuck, sir, please -"
</p><p>
You grab his hair and pull him up a bit. Watch the tendons in his throat gulp, the tears bead in his eyes. "What did I say?"
</p><p>
"No other noises, sir. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just -"
</p><p>
"I hope you're sorry." You put on a grimace. "You knew you'd be punished for this." You shove him back down onto the futon. "If you'd been good, you would have gotten to touch me tonight." 
</p><p>
He whimpers. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I'll be good, no -"
</p><p>
You cut off his whining. "I appreciate that you tried your best, though. And that you cleared the pathway for me. I will reward you for that much, at least, even if you disobeyed."
</p><p>
He gasps, but says nothing else. Good. You're now the perfect avatar of a top - in control, unwavering, cruelty as affection. You were never going to let him touch you anyway, were you? Even if he'd gotten through the spanking without disobeying, you would have figured out some other way for him to lose control of himself. He never had a chance.
</p><p>
You go back to the Case, get the lube and the beads, take off your gloves. He's still in the same position on the futon, pressed against the cheap bedding, heaving deep breaths. You crack open the lube bottle and apply some to two fingers of your right hand, then tease his hole with them. You know it's cold, the temperature contrast doing little to cool his nerves.  
</p><p>
"I admit, I thought it was funny earlier, you commenting about anal beads," you say, almost casually. "But they don't make a noise, I meant that. You checked off that you wanted to learn about them, right?"
</p><p>
"Ah! Yes, sir."
</p><p>
"This is a set of six melamine beads, strung together from smallest to largest, with a handle at the end. We're going to see how many of them you can take. You checked off you wanted to be penetrated, and wrote that you don't remember whether or not you had been in the past...perhaps this will remind you."
</p><p>
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
</p><p>
You press your body against his side, lube up the beads, then press the first one inside. He gasps underneath you. It's not much - smaller in diameter even than your pinky - but he is not used to being penetrated, that much is clear. The ring of flesh looks inviting, drawing you to it, shining with lube, twitching against the slender resin connecting the bead inside to the rest of the toy. 
</p><p>
The second goes in, nearly as effortless. You watch the clenching of the hole, listen to his breathing. "Deep breaths. You're doing so well so far."
</p><p>
A forced breath in and out, then another. "Thank you, sir."
</p><p>
You push the third in, so slowly. Watch him open up to the bead, the artificial cherry red material contrasted against the organic, dark skin. You can feel against your fingertips the deep heat - you long to feel it more primally, around your finger or your cock, but no. He has not earned it. (You should not, anyway. That is a bridge too far, too presumptuous to think he would actually want <em>you</em> and not just <em>your services</em> -)
</p><p>
"Color?" You steady yourself into the moment, into what you're currently doing, drowning out your fantasies. 
</p><p>
"Green, sir."
</p><p>
The fourth one takes more effort - you hear the hitch in his breath, feel the shivering through his body as he stretches himself open, tries to force relaxation.
</p><p>
"Color?"
</p><p>
"Yellow, sir. I don't...I don't think I can take any more. I'm sorry, I want it but -"
</p><p>
"It's fine, you will learn. How does it feel?"
</p><p>
"Full. Aching. Not bad, but. Overwhelming."
</p><p>
"Turn around. Sit on the edge of the futon."
</p><p>
"Yes, sir." He does as he's told. You observe the tracks where tears had been running down his face, the <em>mass</em> of the body. Why are you attracted to this terrible mess, anyway? Why are your desires so unusual, so obscene? Why can't you be normal, Kim Kitsuragi? 
</p><p>
It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter why or how it has ended up this way, just - go on. "See, no sound," you tease. "Besides, for most people, a toy like this isn't meant to be worn for long periods. There are other things made for that, and maybe I'll have you wear one sometime. No no, the pleasure of these is in the sensation of movement against the sphincter." He looks wide eyed at that - did he really not know? Or is he remembering from some past experiment? (Isn't it lovely, to be in the position of teacher? To watch someone learn about the carnal arts in real time?)
</p><p>
Regardless - you know what to do, to demonstrate. Stroke him off. Watch him thrust into your grip, the beautiful obscenity of a cock slick with lube and precum. Let yourself lean against his body, take in what little heat you can perceive through your clothing. Let him grip your shoulders, your lapels. Hear him groan from the exertion and the sensation. Pinch a nipple as he bucks into you -
</p><p>
"Tell me when you're close. You will not come until I say so. Understood?"
</p><p>
"Y-yes sir, understood, sir," deliciously debauched. 
</p><p>
His cock throbs in your hand, and you speed up a bit -
</p><p>
"Fuck, I'm close, please sir -" and with that you stop suddenly, mid-stroke. Feel the quickness of his breathing as your hand wanders down, tug against the handle of the toy, once just to test the feeling of the sphincter, then - pop!
</p><p>
An absolutely delicious moan comes out from him. Oh, he <em>liked</em> that. Not enough to bring him over the edge, but that's <em>perfect</em>, isn't it? You bring your hand back to his cock, feather-light strokes. "Color?"
</p><p>
"Green sir, that was - that was good, sir, I liked it."
</p><p>
"Good." Your grip firms on his cock again, bringing him back to the edge quickly, efficiently.
</p><p>
"Please, sir, I'm going to -" and again you stop and tug another bead free, earning another heady moan, this time with eyes rolling into the back of his head.
</p><p>
"Good good, you're doing so well," you murmur into his ear, as you bring him close once more. He practically sobs at the sound of the praise - another thing worth noting for the future. 
</p><p>
"Please, sir, can I this time, oh fuck, please," he begs, strained and helpless, and this time you relent, keeping your hand pumping him steadily as the other reaches down and pulls both of the remaining beads out at once. He practically cants off the futon, back arching into you, cum splashing obscenely over your hand and your shirt.
</p><p>
You release him gently, and slide yourself to sit next to him. The cum is clammy and sticky on you, but no matter - aftercare is a priority. If you're going to do this, do this right. "How are you feeling?"
</p><p>
"I. Wow. That was. You're amazing, that was incredible, I wish I'd earned getting to touch you but the rest was perfect," he babbles. 
</p><p>
"Maybe you will one day." Keep telling him that. Keep telling yourself that. 
</p><p>
"Are you - are you okay?" Don't look him in the eye as he shows concern, that's too much, that's dangerous. 
</p><p>
"I'll rinse off in a moment," you reply, breezily. "But first, here." You head back to the Case, look at the list you've left yourself for aftercare, flip the radio on - Relaxed.FM is now playing a string quartet - and grab the flask, the nut packets, the towel, and the oil. Slot yourself back into the crook of his side. Sneak in a kiss to his shoulder - take a bit of touch, your reward for your work, aftercare of your own. 
</p><p>
This time he doesn't need to be told to take the nuts and the water. Massage his shoulders again - press thumbs into the knots, press knuckles along the sinews. Remember in your head anatomical diagrams of muscle groups; remember in your heart the feeling of your chest pounding when you first had to pin a man down at the academy; remember in your shame that you selected your current cologne based on the preferences of a particular instructor. (But of course, do not let this show.)
</p><p>
Stand up when you feel he's ready. Take the towel, wipe your hands. Move to the sink, and -
</p><p>
"Oh, shit, Kim, I'm sorry, I never quite figured out how to get it to stop spraying like that," Harry says, suddenly bashful. 
</p><p>
Oh. A challenge. Well then. "Let me see what I can do." You head back to Harry's clothes pile, grab the chain cutters - there's real pliers in the back of the Kineema but no way you would go downstairs still sticky and musky - and head back to the busted faucet.
</p><p>
You have to be careful not to cut anything - god these are the wrong tools - but if you jimmy it *just* so, careful careful, your hands are shaking, you're more tired than you thought and craving your cigarette and your head's still buzzing from the scene -
</p><p>
"God, Kim, you're so fucking *cool*," Harry remarks from behind you - he must have gotten up and moved to the doorframe when you were focused on the plumbing. "You really handle everything so...so thoroughly, so gracefully."
</p><p>
Your ears burn at the thought. God. Focus. Just a bit more, and - there!
</p><p>
"Thank you, Kim. You...you really take care of me and I appreciate it. What can I do for you?"
</p><p>
"This...this is nothing," you stammer as you clean yourself off, unable to turn to look at him. "I should get some rest. So should you." 
</p><p>
"Sure. Soon. But hey. You haven't had your cigarette yet, right?" You turn and you realize - he's holding the pack he bought earlier today, and a cheap lighter. When did he have the time to -?
</p><p>
"Oh. Uh. Yes." You feel all your confidence drain from you. Why is he taking care of things like this?
</p><p>
"Come on. Sit here, by the open window."
</p><p>
You mutely do so, take the cigarette, pull your own lighter out from your pocket. You remember getting the lighter and the flask both etched with a design - specifically, a simplification of Coupris' old suzerainty-era Mark of Authenticity, from their days of building gears for flour mills. Just subtle enough for no one else to recognize what it means. (A part of you loves this, letting your interests be just out of everyone's reach, requiring both a very careful eye and a similar level of devotion to be seen. Perhaps, though, another part of you is lonely, waiting for someone to actually notice…)
</p><p>
You light your cigarette, then his, take a deep breath in and out. Of course some of you wants to quit. Of course you can't completely. Not with this delicious rush to your head. 
</p><p>
Harry takes a deep draw of his own cigarette, then tilts his head over your shoulder, to exhale out to the open air. Something about the tilt of his chin makes your mouth go dry. "You really want me to earn the privilege of touching you, don't you."
</p><p>
No, it's that <em>you</em> don't deserve it, <em>sir</em>. But keep the poker face on. "I think you need to learn restraint, detective. Restraint, patience, composure. What it takes to live up to the uniform. I figure my role is to help you do that, to make you learn those lessons." Take a drag, savor the warm smoke buzzing within you. "Besides," you grin, "is it really fun to get everything without effort? Isn't there joy in the struggle? The difference between a good opponent and a mediocre one in Suzerainty, for instance."
</p><p>
"Look, I learned my lesson then," he quips back. "But come on. Sometimes you have to lick it, just a little. Get a taste to whet the appetite, to crave more."
</p><p>
"I'll keep it under consideration." A mostly comfortable silence falls between the two of you as you continue to smoke. When you finish, you take out your keychain, unscrew a small silver pill container-shaped ashtray, stub the filter, and toss it in. Harry wordlessly takes advantage of the open container and does so as well. 
</p><p>
You stand, pick up what you brought in, pack the Case. You'll clean the toys soon, but it's time to go. "We both should get some rest. Good night, Harry. Sleep well." You cross the bedroom and bathroom, letting yourself into your own small room for the night.
</p><p>
Well then. That happened again. There is much more to be done. Some parts will get easier, and others will get harder - but you'll be prepared, won't you?
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always to the fan-run Disco Elysium NSFW fan servers for the support and to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikalex88">my excellent girlfriend</a> for the beta. This fic was months in the making, and I hope you all enjoy it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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